Abyssal Arcanist [Chapter 19]

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More Abyssal Arcanist. Also, Happy July! (It's my birthday month!!)

Shami

CHAPTER NINETEEN

UNSKILLED

In the middle of class, while Kristof wrote yet another list of dragons found in desert regions, Twain closed his eyes and blatantly fell asleep. However, as I gently petted my eldrin, I had a thought.

I raised my hand, and even though Kristof had his back to the class, he glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Gray? You’re curious about dunes?”

“No, actually, I was wondering about mimics.” I motioned to Twain’s sleeping form. “Do you know what it takes for a mimic to gain its true form? And what does a true form mimic look like, anyway?”

Most of the class grew still and quiet. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one interested in that question.

“I’m glad you asked,” Kristof drawled. He returned his attention to the chalkboard and wrote something else about the desert landscape. “Rylee wanted to bring in an expert on shapeshifters to give you all an in-depth lesson. You see, her uncle is very knowledgeable on the subject of mimics and doppelgängers. He’ll be here next week to give you a special seminar.”

“When?” I asked.

“A few weeks from now. So, while his lecture will no doubt delight the class, why don’t we all take notes on pyroclastic dragons, shall we?” Kristof continued writing on the board. “Remember that dragons are the most powerful of mystical creatures, and—”

“Besides god-creatures,” Nasbit chimed in.

“—and the god-creatures are all dead, so I thought I didn’t need to include the caveat,” Kristof drawled. “So, as I was saying, dragons are the most powerful, and their abilities often trump other creatures with similar powers. The fire from a dragon will often eclipse that from a will-o-wisp.”

I zoned out, my attention on Twain.

Whenever he became true form, we’d be more powerful than ever. Would we be able to take on any dragon arcanist? I hoped so.

***

After most students had gone to bed, I went to the showers with Twain. The washroom was empty, as most arcanists preferred to wash after a tough day outside, or in the morning. Some went in the evening, but they were rare.

The washrooms were separated by boys and girls, but I assumed both were just as grand. Glowstone chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, keeping the place bright. Plumbing kept the water running, even though we were positioned on a mountain, which was the greatest magic of all, if I were being honest.

But the best part was the size. The whole washroom was gigantic. There were racks for towers, showers, tubs, and changing areas. Everything was open and clean—and would definitely accommodate a celestial dragon.

At least, I hoped.

“Ready, Twain?” I whispered as I shut the door behind us.

My mimic squirmed in my arms. “I’m super ready. I’m gonna be the best dragon ever.” His voice echoed off the tilt floors and drifted up to the chandeliers.

“Good,” I muttered.

I set Twain down by my feet and then walked over to a tub. Each one was large enough for a fully grown man, so I stepped inside and then rested my head back on the edge. Once positioned for sleeping, I glanced over at Twain.

My eldrin sat on the tile floor, his eyes wide, his pupils both giant circles.

“Dragon time,” he whispered with a smile.

I smirked as I closed my eyes. The threads of magic around the Academy were… more numerous than before. Fortunately, I could tell them apart. Each string that led back to my classmates, or the ones that were associated with my professors…

Kristof’s dragon was easy. His thread of magic seemed stronger than the ones around it. That made sense.

I tugged his thread and then opened my eyes to watch Twain transform. His kitten body bubbled and shifted, and I held my breath as he grew larger. Outward went his fur, until it shimmered into a translucent jelly-like body. Twain grew into a large dragon—something that practically filled the whole washroom. I had to lean away, even though I was still in my tub.

His body was like a bubble of thick water sparkled with the stars themselves. The light from the glowstone chandeliers sparkled through his chest and wings, casting the washroom in liquid ripples that shimmered across the walls.

Twain’s wings were just as translucent, but they were clearly just for show. His body seemed almost weightless, just like the ethereal whelks. His eyes glowed like stars, and when Twain turned his attention to me, I sat a little straighter.

He was so… mystical.

“Do you like being a dragon?” I asked.

He nodded once. “Oh, very much.” His voice was regal and deep—or perhaps refined was a term.

I drummed my fingers on the side of the tub. Then I rubbed my forehead. I had been so curious about Twain’s transformation, I hadn’t felt the sear of my arcanist mark changing. That was new.

Then I glanced around. Normally, with ethereal whelk magic, I would put myself to sleep. But Kristof was right—the celestial dragon couldn’t do that. So what was I supposed to do now? Wait until I was sleepy?

“Gray, don’t be foolish,” I whispered to myself. “You’re a mimic arcanist. You—theoretically—have all the magic.”

Even if a celestial dragon couldn’t put someone to sleep, that didn’t mean I couldn’t.

“Hm?” Twain asked with a tilt of his giant dragon head.

I glanced up at him. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m going to transform you into an ethereal whelk, put myself to sleep, and then transform you back into a dragon.”

Twain visibly pouted. His whole nebula body squished down a bit, in a way that was far more adorable than a dragon his size should be.

“I’ll only be for a moment,” I said.

With a dismissive wave of my hand, I felt for Helmith’s magic and then tugged on her thread. Twain went from a celestial dragon that filled the washroom to a floating sea snail that was the size of a human head in a matter of seconds. His body shrank and squashed itself into a spiral shell with iridescent coloring.

Small octopus-like tentacles hung from his body, wiggling in the air.

“Quickly,” Twain said. “I don’t want to be like this for long!”

Using the ethereal whelk’s augmentation, I forced my body into a deep slumber.

***

I opened my eyes in the dreamscape. This time, there was no coliseum, or bizarre torture device statues. It was a cold and barren rocky wasteland—the type of valleys found at the base of lifeless mountains.

Where was I?

The sky was as gray as my name, and I shivered back the cold. I saw no plants, no people, or even any sunshine in the sky. Instead, I spotted Deimos’s prison affixed to the rocky ground, his cell blending with the dream, as though he had always been trapped here.

As a terrible wing howled by, I walked over to his prison. With each step, I focused on the magical threads all over again. Then I picked out the celestial dragon and changed Twain back into his desired form. Although I didn’t see Twain in the dream, I knew that, in the waking world, he was a beast that once again filled the washroom with his massive body.

Once I reached the Death Lord’s cage, I stopped.

He was there, lurking in the depths of the darkness, just out of my sight. There was practically a void at the back of the cell where he liked to dwell.

I placed my hand on the prison.

The cracks were noticeable, but thin. Perhaps I could patch them? Celestial dragon had the ability to manipulate dreams, after all. This had to work. Deimos wasn’t even at full strength—this was just a fragment of his soul—so Kristof’s fully grown eldrin would counteract everything.

I hoped.

It worried that Deimos had said nothing, though. He was normally so talkative.

“What’s that? No threats of death for me today?” I quipped. “Are you feeling sick?”

Deimos stirred from the darkness. He stepped closer to the bars, his expression not one of irritation—but of boredom. He said nothing as he observed me.

“Afraid?” I asked as I motioned to my arcanist mark. The celestial dragon was woven between the points of the star.

Death Lord Deimos slowly lifted a single eyebrow. “Is there a reason I should be?”

“You don’t recognize my eldrin?”

“I do not.” He clicked his tongue in mild disinterest. “Tsk. Some sort of dragon, given the shape. A variant that was born long after my time.”

I flexed my fingers on the stone of his prison. “It’s going to be your undoing.”

That seemed to interest Deimos. He stepped closer to the bars and smiled, his attention fully on me. “Is that so?”

“Celestial dragons can manipulate dreams—far better than an ethereal whelk. I’m here to fix your prison, and then resume my life of normal classes.” I matched his grin. “So, you’re basically defeated.”

Deimos didn’t miss a beat when he asked, “Then what’re you waiting for? I can’t wait to see your epic triumph.” His tone oozed with contemptuous sarcasm. I would know—I loved sarcasm.

I returned my attention to my hand. Again, I flexed my fingers, feeling the smooth rock beneath my grasp. The stone prison felt magical, likely because it was completely made of Professor Helmith’s true form ability.

Would I be able to repair it?

I had to envision it. That was the key to magical manipulation.

No room for doubt. I just had to act. That was the key. Confidence.

“Heh,” Deimos muttered. “You’re all bluster, child.” In an icer tone, he added, “If you have the gall to face me and throw taunts, you better have the spine to back up your claims.”

His words spurred me into action. I imagined the dream changing—the cage changing—and then willed it so.

In an instant, the dreamscape warped. My arm and hand burned from the use of magic. It hurt so much—seared my insides—I shouted and leapt backward.

Dragon magic…

The whole dream changed. In an instant. It was far more thorough and faster than anything I had seen Professor Helmith do.

Boulders exploded into trees. The ground transformed into a swamp. The distant mountains became plains of purple flowers. Rainbows shot through the sky, slicing through clouds.

And then, in typical dream fashion, weird things seeped into the mundane. Horses pranced out of rivers that formed between trees. The rainbows turned on each other. They fought to dominate the sky. The temperature became cold.

But worst of all, a part of Deimos’s cage shattered.

Two of the bars cracked and splintered, bursting inward and creating a hole. The outer shell of the prison crunched inward, creating more spiderweb cracks, and deepening the ones that had already been there.

Helmith’s magic weakened…

The only noise in the dreamscape was the callous laughter of Death Lord Deimos. He stuck his hand through the broken bars. He couldn’t fit his body through—thank the good stars—but his arm slipped through without a problem.

“What a wonderful display,” Deimos said with a dark chuckle. “You’re all power and no skill. Delightful.”

I cradled my arm close to my chest. It still hurt. Kristof’s celestial dragon magic was too strong for my young mimic powers.

The bizarre dreamscape rippled and shimmered all around me. I shook my head and allowed my connection to the celestial dragon to fade. My arcanist star returned to something blank, and everything around me melted.

That was when…

I awoke in the washroom tub, my heart hammering.

“Gray?” Twain asked as he leapt up onto the side of the tub. “Is everything okay? You seem scared.”

Dammit. I rubbed my face, clearing away the sweat.

I had made everything worse.